


Just Two Boys From Brooklyn

by StraightOnTilMidnight



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7704253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StraightOnTilMidnight/pseuds/StraightOnTilMidnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It began in July – their story, I mean. A story of heroism, bravery and sacrifice; a story that would be retold for generations as a legend. But before all that, before they became the men we now hail as heroes, they were just two boys from Brooklyn, with nothing more impressive to their name than the fact that they happened to be on the same street, at the same time, on the same day, in the year 1925.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Two Boys From Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own either of these beautiful characters, nor the universe they inhabit. Kudos to Marvel.
> 
> This is the story of Steve and Bucky meeting, as I imagined it, and was written purely for fun and the desire to see more of these characters' history. I am considering turning it into a longer work, exploring more snapshots of their past and the relationship between them, but this depends both on my own inspiration and whether any one would want to read it.
> 
> This is my first fanfic, so any feedback at all would be hugely appreciated!
> 
> Enjoy.

It began in July – their story, I mean. A story of heroism, bravery and sacrifice; a story that would be retold for generations as a legend. But before all that, before they became the men we now hail as heroes, they were just two boys from Brooklyn, with nothing more impressive to their name than the fact that they happened to be on the same street, at the same time, on the same day, in the year 1925. 

~ 

The air hung heavy and hot over the city, as if the sun itself was leaning in to watch the inhabitants scurry about their business. James Buchanan Barnes wished he had the power to punch the sun. Given a choice, he would pick cold every time. He hated the heat. Right at this moment, in the haze of self-righteous martyrdom that all seven year-olds tend to adopt when given a chore, he hated his mother too; for sending him out into the gaze of the sun to deliver a basket of washing. Mrs Jackson, an elderly, rather eclectic woman who lived two blocks down, and the owner of said washing, had been dropping off a load every Wednesday morning and picking it up the next day at noon for as long as James could remember. The fact that her regular custom contributed substantially to the family’s income did not stop him from cursing her name every way he knew how, in time to his steps, as he trudged down the street. Though, he supposed – and he stopped to give this thought the full consideration it deserved – he should really be cursing the cat that had caused her to fall over and break her leg, thus confining her to her 6th floor apartment for the foreseeable future. Mrs Jackson had many cats, and, as James hadn't been informed on which one had caused the accident, he settled for cursing the species in general. Matter resolved, he continued on his slow, dawdling way, head craning around the full basket to look down at his feet, where he was carefully tracing the cracks of the sidewalk. Despite his antipathy to the sun, he was in no hurry to reach the indoors. Used as he was to Mrs Jackson's weekly visits, he was equally used to her frequent attempts to invite herself in for tea – regardless of Mrs Barnes's obvious workload, the woman would park herself at their kitchen table and talk incessantly at whichever unfortunate family member she could hold on to, resisting all attempts to displace her for as long as possible. James was not looking forward to being her only prey, especially on her home turf. 

Intent on his snail's path, James did not immediately register the sudden disturbance somewhere ahead of him. Voices, distinct in the desert of a street, echoed from the side of the building nearest to him, escalating into the sudden thump of flesh on flesh that made James look up, immediately alert. Realizing vaguely that he'd reached Mrs Jackson's apartment block, he didn’t pause before continuing past the door to the break between this building and the next. Cautiously tilting his head to see past the washing basket in his arms, he peered around the corner – and a frown slid on to his face. Sunlight was streaming into the alley, dancing off dust particles that were floating up in clouds and creating a strangely serene contrast with the scuffle that was kicking up the dirt. A boy, maybe slightly older than James but not much taller, was flailing inelegantly as he stamped and punched at something – or someone – at his feet. 

"Runt," He taunted breathlessly between hits. "Should be – oof - drowning - you – instead!" 

Between the gaps of flying limbs, James caught sight of the second figure, whose bony body was curled into a protective ball that shuddered but did not make a sound with each impact. Something stiffened in James's back, and he dropped the washing basket; the thud of it landing indistinguishable from the sounds of the fight. 

"Oi!" He yelled, dropping his head and charging before he could change his mind. 

The boy doing the punching had half turned at the cry, yet was caught unawares by the body suddenly barreling into his ribcage. With a groan he doubled over, but, though almost the same height, he was much broader than the charger, and did not fall down as James had hoped. It took only a second for his reddish head to raise again and to fix his narrowed eyes on James, who had faltered, unsure what to do next. Breathing heavily through a wide nose, the assailant took a step towards James, who in turn took a slight step backwards. 

"Who the hell are you?" 

James held up his hands in the placating way he'd seen his mother use to his father. "Uh, hi. I was just passing by, but I can see you're done here so-" 

His neck snapped backwards as a chunky fist slammed into his cheek, filling his face with hot, blazing pain. James really hated the heat. Staggering from the blow, he thought he glimpsed a shadow moving behind the other boy, but the shadow of an arm drawing back once more made him look up and struggle to brace himself. 

A shrill voice filled with defiance pierced the floating dust, making both parties pause. "Hey dumb-ass! Taking a break?" 

Two scrawny fists hit hard into the back of said Dumb-ass's knees, as, instinctively, James reacted by pushing all his weight into the chest in front of him. The boy's arms grappled at the air as his knees buckled and he lost balance, falling backwards over the crouched body behind him. A resounding crack announced head hitting concrete. 

"Ha!" The triumphant cry came from the third body in the alley, now visible as a low, crouched shape, while Dumb-ass, momentarily stunned, lay silent on the ground. 

James had retrieved his abandoned delivery, and, as heavy eyes flickered open and scrabbling arms began to move to push their self up, he now held the bulky shape of the washing basket over his opponent's head. From below, and with the light of the sun surging from behind him, James knew it must look a lot more threatening than it really was, so he spoke aggressively, backing up his tone with angry shakes of the basket. 

"Time to go, pal." 

Eyes flashed, as the boy on the ground looked from James, to the basket, to the boy still hunched over behind him. He swallowed angrily, before his gaze slid back to the load still hanging over his head and he grunted his assent. Still keeping his face deadly serious, James nodded once and stood to the side, as the vanquished foe crawled to his feet and disappeared around the corner without looking back. 

"That went well," Wheezed a voice behind him, and James dropped the washing once more. "but the basket was a bit overkill." 

An involuntary grin spread across James's face, as he turned to inspect his sole remaining companion. He had a tuft of dirty blonde hair that flopped over his forehead into eyes that were scrunched up in both laughter and pain, as they gazed back at James. 'Runt', Dumb-ass had called him, and it was undeniable in the skinny shoulders and meagre frame. However, there was something there – in the bright eyes, James thought, or maybe the defiant tilt of the head - that denied this description, that spoke of a deeper strength. The boy unfurled his stick-like legs to a sitting position, revealing something very small and very fuzzy burrowed into his lap. It was a kitten, James saw, as tiny paws began to struggle in weak protest at the removal of it's shelter. Minuscule and emaciated; another runt. 

"He was gonna drown it." The boy spoke between rasping breaths, red blotches on his face and arms showing where bruises would form. "Just for being small. That's not fair." 

James stared for a few seconds, mouth slightly open with a strange mixture of admiration, amusement and awe. This kid had been shielding it the whole time; his frail, scrawny body providing a barrier between the little animal and the other boy's violence. And he had succeeded, he'd kept it safe. James had never seen anything like it, and wasn't entirely sure whether it was an act of incredible bravery or stupidity. Whichever it was, he decided, it deserved respect. 

"No, it's not fair, " he agreed, stepping forward and offering his hand for the other to pull himself up with. "What's your name?" 

Slightly unsteady on his feet, and with the kitten still clutched protectively to his chest, the boy blinked at him. "Steve. Steve Rodgers. What's yours?" 

James doffed an imaginary hat. "James Buchanan Barnes, at your service." 

A look of confusion greeted his introduction. "If you've got two names, how do people know which one to call you?" 

This had never occurred to James Buchanan before, and he took a moment to mull it over. "I guess they just choose the one they like best," he said at last, "But most people call me James." 

"Which do you like best?" Steve shot back, eyes narrowed. 

"I... I don't know." he answered honestly, feeling slightly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. There was a pause between them, until he suddenly blurted, "James is my pa's name. I wish I wasn't called James." 

Steve looked at him, eyebrows raised. 

"But I can't be called Buchanan, can I? Bloody mouthful that." 

"What should I call you then?" 

He sighed and brushed a hand through his thick, unruly hair. "Call me whatever you like, pal!" Grinning widely, he changed the subject, gesturing to the creature Steve still cradled. "So, what're you gonna do with this guy?" 

Placing a tender hand on the small head, Steve smiled at the loud purr it produced, before glancing back up at James and shaking his head. 

"I can't keep him," he whispered, as though to stop the cat from hearing. "But he'll die on his own. He's just not big enough." 

James's mouth twisted as he chewed on the inside of his lip, a moral battle taking place within him between sudden inspiration, and the selfish instinct of self-preservation. He watched Steve and the little animal, taking in the kindness that shone through eyes the colour of a hazy Brooklyn skyline; pale compared to the bruises forming vividly on his face and arms. Closing his eyes briefly, he sighed dramatically, before opening them to give Steve a wonky smile. 

"This might just kill me, but I have an idea." 

~ 

In the end, Steve accompanied James, who needed both hands to carry the full washing basket up the never-ending flights of stairs. Besides, James didn't fancy his chances of prying the kitten free of it's rescuer without several slashes. Those tiny claws were sharp. He was panting heavily by the time he reached the sixth floor, and didn't have to look back to tell that Steve was too – the wheezing breaths had got progressively louder the higher they climbed. Glancing over his shoulder, he was surprised to see how well the other boy had kept up; despite the desperate rise and fall of his chest, Steve was only a flight of steps below him. 

"You okay?" 

Steve glared back at him and ostentatiously sped up the last few steps. "Fine," he gasped, stopping and bending double. "You're sure this will work?" 

"Trust me, she never turns down a cat in need." At least he hoped not, never having tested the theory. 

Since James's hands were full, Steve knocked on the cracked wood door of number 67 and they waited side by side, listening to the laboured sounds of movement from within. At last, the door opened to reveal an old woman with a long face thrust forward in inquiry, heavily built but hunched over the two sticks she was using to support herself. 

"Mr Barnes!" She exclaimed in her unusually deep, throaty voice, honing in on his face. "How very good of you to- but who is this?" 

Steve had moved inconspicuously behind James and the large pile of washing, but now edged out into the full line of her powerful gaze and, awkwardly clutching the cat to his thin chest, gave a kind of bow. 

"My name is Steve Rodgers, ma'am." 

Smiling delightedly at such impeccable manners, Mrs Jackson inclined her head to Steve, and pushed her door open wider, inviting them both in. 

"Why, what a lovely friend you have, Mr Barnes. Please, you must both come in and sit down and tell me all about- oh!" 

For the second time Mrs Jackson cut herself short, as she caught sight of the small bundle of fluff in Steve's arms. Sensing victory approaching, James nudged Steve with his foot, who reluctantly held out the creature for inspection. 

"How beautiful you are," Mrs Jackson murmured, lost to reality as she stroked the soft fur. "Oh, yes you are. Yes, you are!" 

Arms starting to grow heavy from the weight of the basket, James cleared his throat rather impatiently. "Mrs Jackson?" Her wispy silver head raised, but eyes remained firmly fixed on the animal. "Mrs Jackson, we, er, Steve and I, wanted to ask you about the cat. You see, it has nowhere to go." 

"Please, ma'am," Steve joined in, blue eyes growing wide in appeal. "You would be saving it's life if you could find it in your heart to-" 

Her laugh was deep and rasping, and seemed to reverberate through every bone in her frail old body. 

"Of course I shall keep her! Don't you worry, my little darling." 

James hoped the latter was directed at the cat, but couldn't be sure. 

~ 

With Mrs Jackson’s attention firmly held by her new feline companion, James and Steve were able to make a swift get-away, incited with the elation of success. They descended the stairs, laughing together, James taking the steps slower than necessary to keep time with Steve. Stepping out once more into the burning gaze of the sun, the surge of events of the last hour seemed strangely distant – the only reminder being the bruises that dusted the smaller boy's skin with a dark, brooding blue. They looked at each other, James and Steve, each suddenly unsure where they stood. At last, James broke the silence. 

"Well, I should get on home now we've escaped." But he hesitated, still looking at Steve. 

"You know," he said slowly, considering the other boy. "I think that was one of the bravest things I've ever seen, what you did before.” 

Steve lowered his head, flushing slightly. "Yeah, well, I'd be mush if it wasn't for you." 

"And I'd be a an old woman's prisoner-of-war, if not for you!" James retorted. 

"Well then," and though the words were tinged with laughter, the voice was serious. "I guess we had each other's backs." 

James tilted his head with a wonky smile and a wink, and held out his hand to Steve. 

"Good job, soldier." 

Steve shook the hand, nodding back. "And you, sergeant." 

Spinning on his heel, James began to march away, calling back over his shoulder, "See you around, Steve!" 

He was almost at the corner of the block, before the shouted reply reached him. 

"See you around, Bucky!" 

James snorted with laughter, instinctively glancing back at the small blonde head in the distance. Bucky, huh? He shook his head, a wide grin spreading across his face. 

What a punk.


End file.
